


by your hand

by kaermorons



Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: Geralt goes missing during a hunt. It's up to Jaskier to track down a monster of his own.For Geraskier Week 2020 Day 2: Monster Hunt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633993
Comments: 9
Kudos: 382





	by your hand

Most hunts are blood and guts, gore and glory. Jaskier was used to the sight of a head being rent from their shoulders by now, and had witnessed the death of several species, including his own. He was used to the sight of Geralt under the influence of one of his potions, eyes blown out black with poison veins fanning out around them. He was familiar with the sight of the witcher’s body heaving with restraint when the effects hadn’t worn off fast enough. He knew a little of the strain it put on Geralt’s body to fight as hard and as long as he had, patching up the witcher’s body, more scar tissue than skin.

But Geralt always, always came back to him. It may take hours, it may take a night, but Geralt always returned.

So it was very alarming to Jaskier when Geralt hadn’t returned from his hunt for three days. Jaskier could pay for the room, sing for coin, but there was a dark raincloud over his head, threatening to tear his skies apart and rain hell upon his thoughts.

Worry drowned any sense he had.

Which is why, on the morning of the fourth day, Jaskier packed his bag, put on his traveling clothes, and left a note with the innkeeper to let him know what he was doing. The man behind his desk gave him a strange look, bewildered disgust and worried confusion.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, bard.”

“Just. Keep my room clean. I’m leaving my lute here. So.”

“Alright, go on then. Go get your witcher.”

Jaskier’s confidence surged for a moment, before he was nearly knocked on his ass when the handle of Geralt’s steel sword caught on the top frame of the door and yanked him back by the shoulders.

After an embarrassed brush-off, Jaskier continued. He had a monster of his own to hunt.

Jaskier knew which direction the Witcher had set off in, because he’d watched until the man had disappeared into the treeline. His boots hiked up the forested hillside with ease, muscles that had strengthened by years on the road. He recalled where the monster Geralt had been sent to fight had been holed up, in a caved area near the mouth of the river.

Jaskier found the river well enough, taking a moment to wash his face of grime and sweat from the summer’s morning. The tip of the steel sword’s sheath barely brushed the ground where he was squatting, and the heft of the weapon at his back reminded him of his task. He also had a fully-stocked supply bag, in case Geralt was hurt. The thought of Geralt hurt and alone in the forest, unable to make it back, made the lump in Jaskier’s throat grow.

He followed the river upstream for several hours, taking breaks every so often to rest. Geralt could have done the entire hike in one, he knew. For the first time since starting this journey, Jaskier felt doubt that he could actually go and finish the job Geralt had started. What if Geralt was nothing but a pile of bones by the time he got there, picked clean by whatever was in the cave? Those thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind, eyed focused with a clear intensity. He would find his witcher. He had to. There was no other choice.

There was a fork in the river coming up, a confluence. A strike of panic burrowed in his chest. Which rivers’ mouth would Geralt have taken?

Geralt had taught Jaskier many things over the years they’d been traveling together. One of the best lessons he’d given was patience. Jaskier knew the answer of which river to take, which river would take him to Geralt, would come to him, so he sat and he watched the sluggish water move by. Just as the worry was about to crash over him in a wave, the right-side river twitched, a fish wriggling around several rocks in the riverbed.

“A fish wouldn’t come from a rivermouth.” Jaskier gasped, getting to his feet. He ran up the mountain, following the left-side river like a rope was tugging at his heart. The sharp, heavy sword beat rhythmically against his back. His frame was much slighter than Geralt’s, and none of his equipment fit him.

He felt as though his heart would burst by the time he crested the hill, coming to a flat plain that served as the threshold for the wide, dark mouth of a cave. “Definitely the right place.” Jaskier muttered, steeling himself to match the sword on his back. Speaking of sword…

Jaskier’s hands held steady as he unsheathed the blade. He wouldn’t be able to hold it aloft for long, but the adrenaline in his veins calmed his mind, relaxed his shoulders, and sharpened his vision. He had no fear, it was like Geralt was there alongside him, silver sword a match for the steel in Jaskier’s hands.

His steps were slow and careful as he entered the cave from the side. It smelled dank and full of death. He would have to take it slow to allow his eyes to adjust enough to see in the dim light. Thank the gods it wasn’t late in the day, and most of the light from the clearing outside reflected into the cave a ways. Large stalactites and stalagmites lined the cave, giving it the effect of a monster’s jaws. “And into the throat I go.” Jaskier said, voice trembling with nervous energy.

There was a fight in the cave. Rocks and sand were pushed around on one side, and the scorch marks on the walls were too high to be a campfire. “Igni.” Jaskier whispered, touching the blackened stone with his fingers. Geralt had been here. He walked deeper into the cave, heart pounding in his chest. His imagination provided unhelpful images of Geralt, impaled on a stalagmite, Geralt, facedown in the sand with claw marks on his neck. He shook the thought from his mind, along with some beads of sweat that had bled from his forehead. His mouth tasted bitter with worry.

“Geralt.” Jaskier whispered, harsher than before. No answer. “Geralt, are you here? Are you hurt?” More silence.

A sudden smell of death and decay hit his nose. If he had Geralt’s witcher senses, he’d be able to discern between human decay and monster decay. All he had now was his hope. He swallowed roughly and moved on.

The scent of decay hit harder the closer he came to where the cave ended. He could hear his own voice bouncing back at him.

The faint light from the mouth of the cave illuminated the lump of a person on the floor. The body was too small to be Geralt, which filled him with hope, but it was too small and too familiarly-shaped to be a monster. A human, then. Jaskier breathed through his mouth, hands shaking along with the sword. The grip felt hot and slippery, like holding a candy that had sat in the sun. Jaskier knelt down to the sand, feeling around for clues. The blood that had spilled from the corpse had long dried, making a sticky silt beneath his fingertips. There was nobody else in the cave, just Jaskier and a nameless corpse.

Curiously, the corpse, as mangled as it looked in the dim light, only had one cut along its throat, and had its hands crossed over its body. “Mercy kill.” Jaskier said. He came to another shocking realization. This corpse wasn’t one of a bulky mercenary or bandit; it was one of a young man, about Jaskier’s age. It twisted something in Jaskier’s gut. Geralt would have been very upset over this if he’d felt the need to kill this man and leave him in the cave. Jaskier gave the cave another once-over before making his way back out, sword at his back now that there was no danger of being attacked. He gulped in great lungfuls of air as soon as sunlight his his skin, stunned at the shocking discovery in the cave.

But that still didn’t answer the question of where Geralt was.

Jaskier refocused, looking around him. There was a scrabbled trench of footsteps leading away in the mud just outside the cave entrance. Geralt wouldn’t have made such a clumsy trail, or any trail at all, had he been in his right mind. What if he’d been poisoned? Injured? Jaskier followed the trail, making it about a half-mile before the ground was too dry to continue tracking with ease.

“Geralt!” Jaskier called, looking around in the forest, feeling more lost than he’d been in a long time. “Geralt, where are you?” he shouted. He listened quietly for any response other than the rustle of air between leaves and branches.

No answer came.

Jaskier looked back at the trail he’d come from, noting the straightforward direction. He decided to follow that direction ahead, weaving quickly through trees and nearly falling into another small stream that came upon him suddenly. He grasped at a nearby tree to steady himself, looking down at his feet to find something that made his gut sink.

A glint of silver stared back up at him, and when revealed, showed a medallion of a wolf, attached to a simple chain. The weight was a lot more than the one Jaskier felt in his hands. He gripped it tightly and reached up to wrap it around the hilt of the steel sword at his back, a soft jingle at his ear that reminded him of his goal.

Geralt had felt so shaken by this hunt, and the kill, that he’d ripped off his Witcher medallion and left it behind like it was nothing. Jaskier followed the creek upstream on instinct. Geralt would be looking to get as far away from humanity and civilization as possible. Something in his ethical code had been challenged and defeated, he was spiraling. Jaskier just hoped it wasn’t too late.

He took his time hiking along the stream, looking around for any sign that Geralt had detoured from it. He’d never, in his time of traveling with the White Wolf, heard of anything that would have possibly broken the man’s code enough to cause a reaction like this.

Did this mean that he didn’t want to be found? Was Geralt hiding to not be found? Was his shame too great that even Jaskier couldn’t convince him otherwise?

“Bollocks.” Jaskier grumbled at the thought. Geralt would listen to Jaskier. He was sure of it.

Night was beginning to fall quickly, and Jaskier knew he’d have to make camp or risk traipsing about the forest blindly.

His decision was made when he tripped over the thick thighs of just the witcher he was looking for. All that navigating, for him to just trip over the man like a tree root!

Geralt had been meditating, and looked just as surprised to see Jaskier as Jaskier was to see him. “Geralt!” he called. “Oh thank the gods.” he rested his head on the forest floor. “I found you.” he breathed out.

Geralt didn’t answer, face going stony once more as he stood up. “Why would you want to do that?” he grumbled, dusting off his knees.

“It’s been four days, Geralt.” Jaskier said, like that explained everything. It obviously didn’t, because there was a tense silence that followed.

Geralt was angry with himself, distraught over what had happened in the cave. “Geralt, what happened on the hunt?” Jaskier asked, not with the voice he normally used to ask the same question, eager and wheedling. He was concerned, and showed it.

Geralt’s face twisted in pain and looked away. “You shouldn’t have followed me, Jaskier.” he said.

“What if you’d been hurt? I saw there was a fight in the cave—”

“You shouldn’t have followed me at all, Jaskier. You should have stayed at your tavern in Posada and never followed me into the wild.” His voice was hurt, twisted, and obviously tinged by panic and despair, but it didn’t hurt Jaskier any less.

“Why are you saying this?” he asked, voice gone soft.

“You’re just. You’re just going to get killed out here, Jaskier. You’ll be turned into some. Some creature, and you’ll. Fuck!” he shouted, pacing into the underbrush. Jaskier followed, scooping up the errantly-laid silver sword that had been by Geralt’s side. The weight only added onto Jaskier’s load.

“I haven’t yet, you know.” Jaskier countered. “You’d think after nine years, I’d have lost a limb or something.” It was obviously not the right answer, because Geralt whirled on him.

“And what happens when you do, hmm? What happens when you’re cursed to feast on human flesh, cursed to kill the ones you care for? You would force my blade to your throat, Jaskier?” Geralt snarled, taking Jaskier by surprise. It dawned on him.

“The man in the cave...he reminded you of me. You saw me when you had to kill him.” he knew he was right when Geralt’s face crumpled in front of him in the dying light.

“I cannot endure a life where you must die by my hand.” Geralt admitted in a whisper. Jaskier dropped the swords on his back.

“I will do my best not to force that.” Jaskier said gently, taking the wolf’s head medallion from the hilt. “You don’t think I could take you, if you were up against Jaskier, the flesh-eating monster?” his joke landed a little better, this time, though Geralt was still silent. “No. You could never be my executioner. You’re my Witcher.” his faith in the other was palpable in that moment. Geralt swallowed with some difficulty.

“You are my bard.” Geralt said. It held meaning in every syllable.

Jaskier slowly reached up and slid the medallion over Geralt’s head, until it rested again at his chest. “It would be an honor to die by your hand, for I have only ever lived by it as well.”

Geralt rested their heads together and reached up to hold Jaskier’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”


End file.
